by Darrell Bain
***
Captain Rhymes was well-organized. Our comphones were adjusted and mission orders inserted as we and other students and faculty were funneled through the one geodome entrance left accessible like sand through an hourglass.
Inside, tables with mounds of sausage biscuits from McDonald's had been set up. I thought it was a nice touch, but Medford Rhymes was an old, retired Marine colonel. He probably knew exactly what he was doing. We each grabbed a handful of biscuits and wandered over to seat ourselves in the stands among the troops, greeting a few here and there as we recognized classmates and professors. After we were seated, I glanced around curiously. There were individuals there whom I would never have suspected of being licensed gun carriers, and others were missing whom I had thought surely were.
We were all reserve militia, of course. The regulars, the ones who trained on a regular basis, were probably already on duty somewhere. I wondered what they would find for us to do. It didn't take long before we were told.
Captain Rhymes glanced at his old-fashioned wristwatch and decided it was time to begin. He stared up at us, standing with his feet planted apart and hands on hips, resplendent in a crisply pressed militia uniform like our own, except for twin silver lightning streaks painted on each shoulder of his shirt. His weathered face held not even a hint of humor. "Give me your attention," he said abruptly. His voice was deep and vibrant. The talking among us lowered but didn't cease. Abruptly, all the comphones screeched with an undertone of vibrations like a fingernail scraping a blackboard. We shut up. I didn't know how he made the comphones make that sound, but it certainly got our attention.
Rhymes pretended as though nothing untoward had taken place. He immediately began speaking. No greetings, no homilies.
"You people have been called in as backup for the regular militia. Those troops are already on duty along the border between the Old and North Houston. Our primary mission is to guard the campus of North Houston College and vital installations nearby in order to prevent damage, should the rioters make it this far. Our secondary mission is to preserve access to the s-the gate located here on campus." That was the only miscue of his short statement. Almost certainly, he had started to call it "the sex gate", then reconsidered. I don't know why; everyone else was calling them sex gates.
He continued, "Our tertiary mission is to preserve order within the confines of our assigned areas." Here he paused for a moment to transmit a map of the area we would be responsible for to our comphones, then went on.
"I have selected squad and platoon leaders based on a previous review of your personnel files." At the words "squad" and "platoon", a dozen or so comphones among the crowd notified the honorees. To my surprise, my comphone beeped, then said, "Jackson Stuart. Squad leader, third squad, third platoon." I glanced at Seyla and Donna seated on each side of me. They grinned. I squirmed. I had only a vague notion of military organization, gleaned from the data given to me after I got my carrier's license. I made a note to pull up the file and review it at the first opportunity.
Rhymes then said, in a slightly rougher tone of voice, "I am your company commander. As commander, it is now my duty to remind you that you are all under military discipline. Orders from squad and platoon leaders are to be obeyed without question. Failure to do so may result in summary courts-martial. Conviction carries the penalty of being shot by a firing squad or such other punishment as I may direct."
The crowd sobered like someone had just died at a family reunion. Firing squad? God's chips, what had I gotten myself into? I decided immediately I would pay very particular attention to anything said by him and whoever my superior in the third platoon was. I wondered what kind of orders a squad leader was expected to give, but decided to save that question for another time. Right now, the captain was speaking.
He pointed forward to entrances below the stands, out of sight from where we were sitting, and sounded off. "First platoon, muster at entrance A, second platoon, entrance B, third platoon entrance C, and fourth platoon entrance D. Now. Dismissed." A medley of comphone voices sounded.
Donna and I were both assigned to the third platoon, though in different squads. Seyla was put in the second. We gave her a quick peck and squeeze and hurried down the steps, looking for entrance C. So far as I was concerned, I had just heard an order and I wasn't about to be delayed until it had been carried out.
I knew our platoon leader, though I didn't recognize him immediately; he had been a female the last time I looked. It wasn't until after he had led us up a ramp and into the alcoves of an abandoned refreshment stand that it finally dawned on me, and then only after he introduced himself. Randy Grayson, formerly Randi Grayson, had been in several classes with me. I remembered her as a tall blond girl with a plain face and slender, curved figure. She had been an outstanding student in every class. I hoped that wasn't the only thing they were using as criteria for leadership positions.
While he outlined our platoon's area of responsibility, I wondered what had induced her to change her sex. Lesbian? Illness? Accident? Impromptu bravado such as Don had shown when the gates first appeared? I decided not to ask.
Third platoon was tasked with guarding the gate located on the edge of the campus, McDonald's, a few other nearby businesses, and several blocks of rental homes adjacent to them. We headquartered in a row of commandeered homes on the outer perimeter of our area, not as fancy as I was used to, but probably better than most lower-ranking soldiers enjoyed. Randy kept us all together in the front yard of the home he had chosen for our headquarters for three hours, giving us rudimentary lessons in squad and platoon tactics, probably learned just hours before from Captain Rhymes. The instructions were at about the level of strategy that kids might use when choosing up sides for a snowball fight-if we ever had snow in Houston, which we didn't. After that, he told us which houses were to be occupied by which squads and told the squad leaders to report back to her-him-in half an hour.
I had twenty-three men and women assigned to me, and had about as much notion of what to do with them as a kid with a set of toy soldiers. About the only thing I managed to accomplish in that half hour was breaking up a couple arguments about who got to sleep where. Five minutes ahead of time, I hurried back to see what the new Mr. Randy Grayson had in mind.
Not much, it turned out. He simply wanted to meet us personally and get the guard posts entered in our comphones. Grayson told us to call him Randy (for some obscure reason, there were no militia ranks in the reserves below captain), then told us official guard duty would begin at 0800 hours (eight in the morning in civilian terms). My squad drew the third rotation, naturally, which would put us on from midnight until eight the next morning. One squad rotated as reserve, on call as needed, and was to be inserted into the rotation so each squad's hours of duty would change every couple days.
That being over with, I hurried back to our house, brimming with responsibility and no clear idea of how to carry it out. I used the next few hours trying to get acquainted with my troops and trying to study the mess of military lore which had been downloaded into my comphone.
***
That first night on guard duty, I stood with my weapon and started at shadows and barking dogs. I damn near shot Captain Rhymes as he was making rounds before he identified himself. He didn't get angry; pleased was more like it. He spoke to me for a couple minutes, then squeezed my shoulder and went on. The four hours seemed endless.
The next morning, I was called on the carpet by Randy. It seems squad leaders weren't required to stand guard duty themselves. Their responsibility was to pick a "Sergeant of the Guard" and have him make rounds to ensure that everyone else was awake while squad leaders were supposed to remain at their headquarters waiting for trouble. Apparently, this little item had been overlooked in the hurry to get us organized.
***
As it turned out, Captain Rhymes wasn't nearly the martinet he first appeared to be. He had simply wanted to establish his authority. Once that was settled, he was f
riendly, but maintained a definite distance and never let an opportunity pass without emphasizing in little ways how important strict obedience and quick reaction to orders could be. He was a real commander. He learned all the names of my squad members before I did and began greeting us by name. He only made a round of the outposts once each night; during the day, he gave classes in military tactics to the off squads. I don't know when he slept. Some of the troops grumbled, but I didn't mind; it offset the boredom. There weren't any live computers in the commandeered homes, whether by accident or design, I never found out, but it made for long days and nights. What news we got was dispensed at the head of Captain Rhymes' lectures or demonstrations, or at squad and platoon briefings each day.
I wondered several times how soldiers could spend years doing this sort of thing between wars, which showed just how little I knew about the military. Several days passed with nothing else to break the monotony. I couldn't even read; the suppressors blocked all the personal data in our comphones, including books I always kept in mine to read at odd moments. And the house where we were quartered didn't even have a magazine in it, much less a paper book . Then just when I began thinking the rioting must be about over, all hell broke loose.
Chapter Fourteen
Perhaps there was a reason for not letting the green troops listen to any news, but if so, I think it was a mistake. We might not have been taken so utterly by surprise if we had known what was happening in Old Houston. The rampaging fourth worlders made up a majority of the population of Old Houston, and without the army or National Guard troops there to back them up, the police, Gaters and even the regular militia troops were gradually overwhelmed, chased off, taken prisoner, or simply executed after surrendering. Within a couple days, they controlled all the easy accesses and most of the territory in the city. It might have been possible to negotiate with them had they stopped while they were ahead; it had happened before. They didn't stop, though. Flushed with success, their leaders decided to invade North Houston and capture it as well, knowing the loot would be much richer there. There must have been a scattering of former military experience among the leaders. The invasion was well planned, with picked objectives to capture, like the power plants, police headquarters, the polymerization centers and the university grounds, but all I knew at the time was my own little piece of the action.
My squad was on the four to midnight shift. The first indication of trouble was a popping noise in the far distance, sounding like an erratic drumbeat. It was several moments before I realized I was hearing gunfire. I thought about reporting the noise to Randy, then decided not to. Surely he could hear it as well as me. I didn't stop to think he might be sleeping. Apparently, the other squad and platoon leaders reacted just like I did. It wasn't until shouts began coming in over my comphone that I realized trouble was brewing.
"Movement, post five!"
"Movement, post seven!"
I didn't know what I was supposed to do. All I could think of was to get in touch with the Sergeant of the Guard. I got his circuit up. "Bill? Bill?"
There was no answer. He must have already been dead. A rattle of gunfire overrode the distant drumming, then a voice shouted, "We're being hit! Danny-ugghh." His voice faded away.
I finally remembered what I was supposed to do. The reserve squad! They were for backup and were supposed to be awake and on duty with Randy. My voice jittered so badly, it took three tries to get the right circuit. "Randy, squad three! We're being attacked!"
"Get on it," he said. "Stay in contact and report back. I'll have the reserves ready."
He should have already been sending the reserve squad forward, but he was no more a soldier than I was. I thumbed the safety off my rifle, checked to see that my little handgun was in its holster and ran out the door. Posts five and seven were the only ones which had reported in, but loud, sharp cracks and muzzle flashes told me at least some of the other guard posts were seeing action. Not knowing what else to do, I ran toward post five, a house on the corner of one of the blocks of homes.
I was across the street, running upright as if I had good sense, when a shadowy figure emerged from around the corner of the house and stumbled in my direction. I skidded to a halt and saw the figure abruptly fall to the ground as if it had been pole-axed. Moonlight illuminated four or five more. One poised, aimed a pistol point-blank at the prone figure and fired twice. If the night hadn't been lit by an almost full moon, I would probably have died right then. As it was, I could see they weren't dressed as the militia. I raised my rifle and fired blindly, emptying a whole clip. One of the figures fell while the others dropped to the earth seeking cover. I ran back the way I had come, got behind a house across the street and began running through the backyard parallel to the street, looking for any of my squad. I think I was seeking company as much as anything else.
I collided with someone as I broke through a hedge into the next yard. We struggled briefly, then recognized each other. It was one of my guards. I pulled him down beside me behind the hedge. "Gil, where is everyone?" I asked, as if he might know. More gunfire erupted, all up and down the street.
"Don't know. Francis is dead. What do we do now?"
I didn't know, but luckily, Randy's voice came over my comphone just then. "Third squad, report!"
I took a deep breath, then said, "I have at least two dead. I think five, six and seven have had it. I'm at, uh, nine, I think. One survivor here."
"They're trying to roll you up from the end. Pull your men back toward the higher numbered posts and try to make a stand. Reserve squad is on the way."
Higher numbered? With two guards per post, we only had twelve. Were the others all gone already? "Okay," I said, then touched Gil on the shoulder. "Come on. Back this way."
We ran hunched over. I heard buzzing noises passing uncomfortably close to my head as we angled for the alley. I peeked from behind a garage, saw no one in sight and began running again, trying to remember to count houses so we could stop at each post. Ten was deserted. I picked up the guards at eleven and we joined the other two at twelve. The entire time, the crackle of gunfire rose and fell, coming in erratic waves of sound. I arranged us in a semblance of a firing line behind a rock garden and gazebo, then reported back to Randy.
"We're at twelve. I have five effectives."
"Okay, hold tight there. You'll have company in a moment. Remember the password."
I thought frantically for a moment before it came to me. Just in time. I heard a stampede of boots hitting the pavement behind us and shouted it out into the dark. I raised my rifle, getting ready to fire if the proper response wasn't given. Lucky for all of us, it was. The reserve squad spread out on either side of us just in time to respond to a burst of gunfire from in front of us. When I tried to fire back, all I got was a click of the firing pin. I had never replaced the empty clip.
I don't want to describe too much of what went on the next day or two. I found out that I'm not a very brave person, nor a very good leader, either. After Captain Rhymes took command of the situation, there wasn't much doubt as to the outcome, but that didn't keep my gut from curling up inside me every time he ordered an advance, nor did it stop me from having to force myself to relay his or Randy's orders to my squad members, knowing death lurked in every sentence.
I vomited twice as we pushed back up the street and found the bodies of men and women I had been talking to only hours before, laying where they had fallen when their posts had been overrun. We found only two more of my squad alive; a man and woman who had holed up in the top floor of a two-story home and fought it out from there.
Seeing the bodies sprawled like bloody, broken dolls angered most of the militia members, turning them into merciless killers. I only remember thinking of Donna and Seyla when I saw the bodies and trying to bury the thoughts of whether they had come through the fighting unharmed or not. When I did see each of them, a peculiar sensation uncurled in my chest, one I hadn't even known was there. If either of them had been killed, I was
n't sure I would have wanted to live.
Captain Rhymes ran by once. He halted for a moment to point out a center of resistance we should be firing at, then went on. I shouted at his back, thinking he must know if either of the girls had been hit since I had seen them last. He went on without answering, ducking and weaving.
Our company contained, then slowly enveloped the invaders in our area with flanking attacks orchestrated by Rhymes. By midmorning, we had them in a pocket where they couldn't retreat. Most of them surrendered, leaving only a few holdouts. Rhymes called in a police helicopter with sound-bombs. It only took one to finish them off. My ears hurt for days afterward.
It was late afternoon, nearing dusk, before I was able to find out anything about Donna or Seyla again, even though they were part of the militia company.
Half the company was relieved, third and fourth squad, while the rest remained on alert in case of another incursion. We could still hear fighting not too far away. I barely took the time to order the four men I had left to replenish their ammunition and get something to eat. I scooped up some more clips for my rifle (I had never fired the pistol) and went looking, dreading what I might find.
Neither of the girls were with the relieved squads. I ran back toward the front, my heart trying to come out of my throat. A few inquiries told me they weren't on duty, either.
"Try the treatment area. If they're not there, check the morgue," Dr. Rawlings, one of my old professors suggested tiredly. His beard was matted with blood, whether his own or the enemies, I couldn't say.
Oh, Lord, no. The idea wouldn't stick in my mind. I stood there, stunned, rifle drooping from my hand like a an overused broom. "What, I mean, where-" I couldn't say it.